


You Make Them Breathless

by 0110111101101011



Category: Soul Eater, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: M/M, Madness, Murder, Nightmares, The rating is for violence, Weapon/Meister relationship, excessive injuries, it starts a bit domestic, quirks are more weapon traits now, soul eater/my hero academia crossover, then it gets darker, young!Dabi, young!Tomura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-23 22:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0110111101101011/pseuds/0110111101101011
Summary: Tomura and Dabi are partners. They do not have a healthy partnership.Tomura doesn't know how to fix this. If he should fix it.





	1. Should've Waited Longer

It's dark. Nighttime.

Tomura has been sitting in the music room, alone. There seems a strange emptiness to the school. Everything is silent and waiting.

Black ooze dribbles through a line in the ceiling, spilling slowly like yolk from a cracked egg. It slides over Tomura, pressing against his mouth and eyes until he opens them, gasping for air. It pours down his throat, slicking the walls of his eyelids. It's too thick to scream against, and Tomura thrashes wildly.

He jolts against the wall he was leaning against, knocking his head into the brick and ricocheting pain through his skull. He had... dozed off.

It was another dream. He shivers, still feeling the cold touch of the ooze. On a whim, he cranes his neck up to the ceiling.

DWMA is a fancy school. Has high ceilings. Intact, too. No cracks or breaks.

Shoved into the back corner of the room is a piano, haphazardly covered by a dusty black sheet. Music stands in various poses litter the expanse of the room like tombstones in a cemetery. Most of the chairs in the room have already been poached by other classrooms, so Tomura was left to crouch behind the instructor's desk, facing the windows and watching the sun move jovially.

His legs are cramping and he is very bored.

According to the clock above the piano, the last bell had rung over an hour ago. The school would be empty of everyone who wasn't in a club or who had nothing better to do than loiter, so Tomura eases himself upright, knees creaking and back popping. Enough time has passed, he guessed, and he should be within a safe window of time to leave and get home without running into anyone important.

The school is massive, and many students either use a map to get around or just stick to the same hallways every day. Tomura has a few hiding spots picked out, using an irregular one today in case someone didn't realize he was making himself scarce.

He slides out of the music room, getting dust on his hand from the doorknob. There's no one in the hallway, so he can walk away without arousing suspicion from any upperclassmen. Unfortunately, there's only one way off of the school premises and back into Death City, and it's through the front door and down a single flight of stairs.

Normally Tomura waits afterschool anyways, because walking down the stairs with an entire student body that's excited to leave school is torturous on its own. Hopefully, surely, with luck, maybe, enough time has passed that Tomura has avoided the company he can't survive.

Unfortunately, Tomura has never been lucky, and despite his efforts, he still runs into Dabi at the stairs. He can't get away in time, not after watching him throw his head back and laugh. His long throat is exposed like a beacon and Tomura is caught mid-stride for a moment, a brief half-second too long.

“Hey!” Dabi lazily calls out to him, cementing him in the spot. His captor strides over, giving a half-hearted wave to his friends behind him as he gets closer to Tomura. When he's close enough, too close, he crosses his arms. “You didn't save me from the medbay.”

Flinching harshly, Tomura stares at the pavement slightly to the left of Dabi's shoes. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, not injecting enough emotion into it to actually sound sorry. Dabi's shoes are tattered and muddy. He only owns the one pair. Little flames are scrawled on in someone else's hand, fading from the fabric.

Tomura really wants to run, maybe find a patch of loose dirt and burrow into it. Shyly, he sneaks a peek through his hair without raising his head.

It's worse than earlier: Dabi's eye is nearly swollen shut and its angry color demands the attention of anyone who'd look at him. The bruises blossom off of the puffy center like petals straying from a flower's bud, dotting his chin and cheeks but not boasting anything more severe-looking.

And he's smiling. His lip on the same side as his broken eye is a bit swollen as well, and Tomura jolts away from his lips, refocusing on the ground.

Wearing a black hoodie might've been a poor choice today. It soaks up the heat from the sunlight and makes him sweat. The sun is laughing at him, seemingly at him specifically.

“Hey,” Dabi says, an easiness in his voice. “Don't worry about it.” Tomura's chest stutters and tears like wet paper.

Tomura is fretting when Dabi's hand breaches his thoughts, pulling on his elbow in brisk tugs. “Let's go home,” he says, and Tomura is forced in every way to follow.

Dabi doesn't say anything on their way down the stairs. Tomura can actually see Dabi's group of friends in the distance, still descending as well, and it makes him unsure why Dabi waited around for him. Or why he wanted to walk down an absurdly long flight of stairs and sweat together. Dabi commonly did these things that made him sweat in confusion.

Still, Tomura steals glances at Dabi every few minutes, eventually leading his foot to stumble a step. Dabi doesn't seem to sweat or exert himself. He seems above everything, coolly returning every peek that Tomura thinks is subtle with a heavy-lidded glance.

“Your leg!” Tomura remembers, stopping abruptly.

“Hah, yeah,” Dabi pants once, then seems to be over it. He shifts his weight on his long legs, his dark jeans making them stand contrast to the light color of the steps behind him. He strikes a sharp figure. “It's just a sprain. Recovery Bitch wanted me to use a crutch, but I shook it. Don't need it.” He stands there, waiting for Tomura to continue down to the city below.

Timidly, Tomura turns, protecting himself with a shoulder. “Your eye...” he mutters into his jacket.

“It's better,” Dabi insists, giving the welt a prod. “I actually think the swelling has gone down.” In a grotesque move, he pushes his eyelid open, showing the ugly, harsh red of the eye. Tomura feels like he isn't being forgiven and forces himself not to look away. He takes in every detail of the gruesome injury, and every thread of red and bloom of purple is another lash across his back.

He's the worst partner. Not only the worst, but becoming even worse than _before_. His grades are slipping, his control is weakening. They had serious problems with matching wavelength in the _Before_ , but now whenever they lost sync Dabi was the one who suffered most of all. It had never gotten this bad before; Dabi had never been so beaten before.

“You need a new partner,” Tomura barely keeps himself from saying. Instead, his body shivers and he begins stalking down the steps at a fast pace, wishing he would lose Dabi and escape the entire situation he was stuck in.

A hand taps his shoulder, not grabbing or holding, just hovering. He shudders to a stop, avoiding Dabi's heavy one-eyed gaze by focusing on a faraway rooftop of Death City.

“You've been acting strange,” Dabi begins, only to stop and amend, “Well, stranger. I know I haven't been the most cooperative in the past, but...” His fingers finally curl over the top of Tomura's shoulder, loosely and gently. Tomura shouldn't be able to feel the touch under the heavy layer, but it burns him, making him sweat even more. “Look, we're partners. Is something bothering you?” He manages to turn Tomura around, and caught like a particularly stupid fly, Tomura is left admiring Dabi's face.

Dabi is a kind of easy handsomeness that genetics dictate from conception. When he doesn't have massive bruises or complications involving cuts and shattered bones, his expression is of blank laziness. Even now, Tomura can pick it out under the swelling. Only a few months ago, the odds that someone as unscathed and unwelcomely handsome as Dabi could be dragged down by scarred, scabby Tomura was...

Well, Tomura had never considered it. And now that it seems to be happening, Tomura is trying to work backward, gather lost ground, run. Meanwhile, Dabi doesn't seem to be aware that he's knee deep in a sinkhole and that he should be panicking.

“We haven't been the best with wavelengths, but I thought we were getting better.” Dabi is incredibly striking, not just in figure, but in face as well. Even though his hair is messy and jutting out in every direction, even though his eyes always seem bored and mean, Tomura throbs with a feeling he doesn't want to categorize.

Dabi used to hate him. Resented being paired with him. Probably still does, under all the false assurance and sudden stilted attempts to build trust between them. Tomura wants Dabi to be far away from him, to never have to look at him or talk to him ever again.

Even with the gashed eye and limp, he's tall and concerned, although the latter is most likely a front. He looks at Tomura like no one has ever looked at him before, _if_ anyone actually has looked at him before. People tend to avoid him as much as he avoids them.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Dabi asks, looking every part of the serious partner. _Yes,_ Tomura sweats. _I think I want you._

“No,” he mutters, looking away shamefully. “Nothing.”


	2. Should've Known It Wasn't

When the pair finally reach the bottom, Tomura has to pause for a moment to catch his lost breath. There is definitely bruising on his shins from the fall he took near the end when he tripped over his own feet.

Dabi is beside him, looking patient. While Tomura's sucking in air as quietly as he can, he looks out to see if Dabi's friends are still around. He doesn't see them, but that doesn't mean they aren't still lingering, waiting for the punchline to the joke Dabi's about to pull on him.

Any day now.

Although when he straightens up, Dabi is beckoning him in a direction. “C'mon,” he says with the exhaled nonchalance of a smoker letting go of a long drag. He doesn't seem to be leading him home, but Tomura doesn't mention it, his mind working out what the prank may be.

They don't walk long. Death City is relatively compact; buildings are stacked and clustered like boxes in the spare room of a house. They grow off of each other, branching and seemingly growing overnight. Some alleyways are so tight, only small children or cats can successfully get through them. Tomura has never considered if it was bad planning or some kind of strange revulsion to expanding Death City past city limits.

Stray cats gather in what was once a surprising number. They meow plaintively at Dabi and Tomura as they pass their corner. Death City doesn't have the space for cars in most areas, so the felines are safe from the risk where they convene on the street.

“You're slow,” Dabi retorts, waiting under a hanging sign. Tomura recognizes the odd symbols: a skull in a skillet. The grocery store? “What do you want for dinner?”

Muttering nonsense, Tomura stares at the cats across the thin street. He doesn't want to answer that, doesn't want this guilt trip, doesn't want to be here.

“Wait here,” the bell mercifully jingles as behind Dabi as he ducks through the sliding doors. Tomura watches him go with shaking eyes, trying not to absorb any features. It's like watching a gorgon's stare through a mirror: maybe it won't petrify him to stone.

After a few minutes, Tomura thinks he has it all figured out. Dabi's ultimate plan to bring him here and leave him to wait. Perhaps there's a backdoor that Dabi will escape from. He'll meet up with his friends and laugh about how he got Tomura to believe him, haha, left him under the assumption that he was coming right back. What a riot.

Maybe Tomura should just go home now. Head him off. He'll beat Dabi there and won't he be surprised that Tomura hadn't put up with his tricks, hadn't listened to him like a trained puppy.

“Meow,” a particularly fat cat butts its head against Tomura's leg, sending him jolting back in shock. “Meow,” it repeats, unfazed. It has a very nasally voice, flat and unimpressed, sounding a fraction less so when Tomura finally crouches down and pets him.

“Just had to grab—” Dabi starts laughing. Tomura turns, still petting the insistent creature, to see Dabi at the door, holding an unassuming plastic bag. “Made a friend, Tomura?” Maybe it's the way Dabi breathes his name, or the way Tomura's watching his lips move around the familiar syllables, or maybe the sweetening smirk, but Tomura flushes deeply and his heart tries to escape his chest.

Standing up, he brushes the cat hair off his pants with little success and walks off, this time towards the apartment. Dabi doesn't seem to be in the same hurry, following behind him and whistling smoothly. It makes Tomura's hackles raise, which reaches a peak when he's unlocking the door and Dabi's laughing directly in his ear. The exhalations gust through his hair with a gentleness that he revolts against. “Looks like we have a new roommate.”

Tomura is confused until he spares a backward glance. The chubby cat is jogging down the sidewalk, fur rippling. When it's close enough, it makes an indignant noise, perhaps at being left behind so suddenly. The cat runs directly into Tomura's leg, purring and rubbing so lovingly that Tomura is sure his heart knits itself a little.

Bending down, Dabi picks the creature up. “Looks like someone's got a crush,” he says, patting the top of the cat's head. The animal seems even more content now that it's being held close, purring so loudly that Tomura can hear it from where he's standing. “No collar,” Dabi notes, feeling through the thick fur as if it's hidden. “I've seen him around before, at that corner. Whenever I go to the store, he's there.”

“Just because he's there doesn't mean he doesn't have an owner,” Tomura finally opens the door and goes inside, Dabi and company following.

“Well, now we have to keep it.”

Tomura slumps onto the half-burnt couch, burrowing his head in his hands, feeling tired and done. A “Why?” is muffled into his palms.

“Because it made you say a full sentence to me.”

He falters. “The cat has friends,” he tries to reason, thinking of the group of cats left behind on the corner.

“Cats don't have friends.” When Dabi sets it down, it makes a beeline for Tomura, hopping onto his lap in a small contradiction of Dabi's words. Tomura resigns himself to petting it, watching Dabi move into the kitchen while pretending he isn't watching Dabi.

The kitchen is standard for DWMA student housing. It's open to the living room, so Tomura and the kitty can observe the entire process of cooking. Dabi is pulling out a pan from a cabinet, and the noise makes the cat tense slightly. When Dabi turns back around, Tomura glances away, to the window. “Keep the fucking cat,” Dabi continues. “If it did have owners, which it doesn't, then they were bad owners for letting him out so much. Shit's dangerous. I'll take him to the vet next time I skip.”

“You can't skip tomorrow. We have remedial lessons.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dabi's voice echoes in a pantry he's leaning in. He comes out holding a bag of something, ripping it open with a knife and pouring it into the pan on the stove. The contents rattle like rice until the pan is full. “I know,” he says, “Fucking hate remedial lessons.”

“I don't like them either,” Tomura reminds the cat, who rolls onto his back in a ploy for more pets. He doesn't seem to care about the words Tomura is saying, which Tomura is can't help but smile softly at.

“They can't make us do anything _strenuous_ since I'm _recovering_ or whatever,” utensils clatter with the same affronted cadence of Dabi's words. “So don't worry about it too much.”

“Like I'd be worried,” Tomura defends, getting up and walking closer. Although if they got Eraserhead, they were fucked. That professor had a way of analyzing that made Tomura feel defenseless and simple. It was as if he could burrow into the very place you were trying to hide and uncover it for every nearby eye.

Last time they saw him, Dabi underwent a personality change overnight, treating Tomura like a friend instead of a hindrance. Needless to say, Tomura is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Also needless to say, Tomura wasn't looking forward to tomorrow.

“That's strange,” Dabi stops, body frozen in a strange position that tickled Tomura's brain in a vaguely uncomfortable way. “Do you hear music?”

Music? He couldn't hear anything at first, but then it began to swell and play louder as if Dabi heralded it.

“Where's it coming from?”

Dabi pulled the pan off the heat and wiped his hands on his shirt, smearing something across it. He's moving out into the living room as if looking for something physical. “It sounds like it's coming from inside the apartment. Is it your phone or something?”

Tomura's phone has been dead for days, but he still checks his pockets. It's there, and he pulls it out, staring at the black screen. “No,” he says without really checking.

“That's strange,” Dabi says in the kitchen, holding up the knife again and examining it, as if that was where the sound was coming from.

“It is strange,” Tomura murmurs, suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful feeling of paranoia. “Where's the cat?”

Dabi glanced at him. “What cat?”

“You're not,” something breaks in him. “You're not funny. Not even when I'm,” when he's dreaming, it's a dream because every shadow twists menacingly, and he knows everything here wants to kill him for some reason. He hears the music but can't place the tune.

When he looks up, Dabi is gone. The knife is sticking out of the cutting board, blooming like Excalibur. Something fuzzy is pinned there and he abruptly turns away, backing off hastily. The front door is locked. When he turns back again, the kitchen is gone. It's been covered by a black curtain, except when Tomura reaches out to catch it with his hands, he can't.

It's as if he's in deep, inky water. The air feels heavy and wet. His eye starts aching, and when he struggles to reach up, feel it, there's just a growing hole. The rim is meaty and wet, and every touch sends his mind through a dizzying pang of pain.

“Tomura,” a small voice says beside him, but he doesn't look. It's on his blind side. Blood slips down his arm, then seems to drip down from above him, sliding under his shirt and staining his skin.

“No!” he calls out in this soundproof place, trying to wipe the liquid away, but it doesn't smear. It's inked in a layer like a tattoo. “No!”

“The leg, Tomura,” the voice supplies. He can feel the source behind him, egging him on for some macabre joy. “Your leg.”

He falls to his knees, leg slowly bending, pain and pressure building until it snaps with a loud crack. “No!” He's screaming now. Every time he blinks, blood runs out of his eye like tears, warm and undesired.

“Your fault,” the voice caresses him, sounding like the wind. His eyes snap open; he's lying in bed, and he can still hear it. He's awake, in his dark room, and he can still hear it.

He can't move.

“Your fault,” someone beside him says. It isn't Dabi.

“D—” he stops himself from crying out. Instead, he struggles to close his eyes and tries to return to sleep. This might be a dream too. It's so hard to tell lately.

A cannonball lands on his stomach and he's gasping, eyes snapping open and curling upwards. He's free now, free to see that there's nothing in his room, nothing except for him and the pleased cat on his stomach. The door is slightly ajar, but there's nothing there, just a soft darkness that looks gentle after the dream he just had.

Just a dream, he promises, falling into that cliché.

When he finally surrenders to life and struggles out of bed, Dabi is waiting for him on the couch, already dressed and ready. “Breakfast is in the kitchen,” he informs Tomura, flicking through a small paperback.

“You could've gone without me.” For some reason, Tomura feels sluggish and foggy. It's as if his mind is turned off, and refusing to process any information. His food tastes bland.

“Nah,” Dabi flicks the book shut, “remedial lessons, remember?”

Tomura holds his tongue. Dabi would know that they could just meet in the classroom for that. They wouldn't have to walk to school together for that reason.

As Dabi holds the door open, the cat whizzes by, trotting in front of them. “I already fed him,” Dabi yawns, locking the door as an afterthought and tucking the key into his jacket pocket. The cat follows them to a certain point, purring and mewing. He makes Tomura trip several times when he walks in front of his feet and stops suddenly. Tomura is left feeling distantly abandoned when the cat suddenly veers off, dashing down an alleyway.

“Let's go,” Dabi pressures, not stopping. “We're late.”

Thankfully, they don't speak as they climb the stairs. It seems they missed the crowd, but are just in time to watch worried underclassmen who are equally late dash up the stairs with amusement. When they reach the top, a dark figure is standing at the doors.

With a sinking feeling, Tomura recognizes Eraserhead.

“You two,” he deadpans. “With me.”


	3. Should've Given Him a Little

Eraserhead repeats “You two,” when they get to an empty classroom. He says it as if they're a unit, but his tone seems disappointed. “Heard you two were having trouble.” He looks very pointedly at Dabi, then turns away to flick the light on.

Another abandoned room, Tomura notes, looking at the scrambled seats that are dotted around the amphitheater design of the desks. He sweeps around the room, stopping when he comes full circle to Dabi again.

Under the light, Dabi's face looks worse than yesterday. Despite appearances, it is actually much, much worse than yesterday. The colors are blacker, greener, purpler, and mingle into a swollen, puss-excreting mass that completely engorges his eye now.

And the leg, Tomura reminds himself. He was definitely limping when they were walking up to Eraserhead, Tomura had most assuredly noticed. The unending flight of stairs must have been especially hard on the injury.

“So what's going on,” Eraserhead sits on the teacher's desk, and after a moment, lays down. “Your wavelengths are way off. I'm surprised you could even maintain form like that.”

There's the initial crack, Eraserhead's first move successful when Dabi exchanges a look with Tomura, eyebrows slightly raised in silent question.

“And Tomura,” Eraserhead continues, far from done. “You don't have a scratch on you.” Tomura takes a step back, feeling a wave of anxiety building on the horizon. “But your partner is having trouble walking. And seeing.”

Dabi interjects, sliding his hands into his pockets and taking a few steps forward. “What are you trying to say?”

Eraserhead looks bored. “Am I trying to say something?”

“Maybe you should just say it,” Dabi suggests, not sounding aggressive but edged with some kind of readiness. “These are probably pretty boring for you too. Just tell us what you think is wrong and this'll be over faster for all of us.”

“Uh huh,” Eraserhead rumbles, tossing a little on the desktop. “Well, stop right there. Look at where you are.”

Dabi looks down at his feet, then turns back to look at Tomura. Meanwhile, Tomura didn't even realize he was halfway to the door. He seemed to move without realizing, same as Dabi when he positioned himself between Tomura and Eraserhead.

“There it is,” suddenly Eraserhead's eyes are glinting on the two of them, freezing them in place. “One does all the fighting, one does all the running.”

An acrid smell begins to bubble through the room. Dabi doesn't seem to have changed, expression still bored and hands still in his pockets. “It's normal for a weapon to protect his meister,” he says, and his voice doesn't sound affected either.

“You're right,” Eraserhead allows, dipping his head in a small nod. “That's perfectly normal. But taking blows for the other? Using your body as a shield? If you think about it, there's an imbalance here. I think we both know this behavior is beyond that. Does Tomura?”

Exhaling, a few embers sweep out of Dabi's mouth, spiraling to the tiled floor. His breath is colored a smoky gray, faint but gently there. He doesn't say anything, just watching Eraserhead with a stony face.

“Do you think that's the sign of a healthy partnership?” Eraserhead continues. “Do you really think this is sustainable?” Dabi's shoulders shift a small amount. His back straightens. “Maybe you should prove me wrong,” Eraserhead looks mildly taunting when he coerces, “Try to prove _something_ , right?”

Dabi doesn't move, only says, “Tomura.”

Tomura perks. “Y-Yes?”

“I'm going to transform.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly a hot weight is launching backwards into Tomura's chest, spinning with angry energy. Tomura barely catches it, trying to spin the scorching hilt to continue the momentum and vainly wipe the heat away. Dabi is too hot to hold and beginning to burn his hands.

It's as if all of his anger has surfaced, translated into a different form. Tomura can feel it buzzing through their connection, and he's surprised by how much there is, how intense it is.

“So you're going to prove me wrong?” Eraserhead hops off his roost. “I don't even need a weapon to beat you two.”

Dabi is getting heavier with every word Eraserhead says. He flies forward, practically dragging Tomura behind him, jabbing into the desk and knocking it over with his broad blade. Dabi cuts backwards, beginning to spin again, and arches up over Tomura's head. Tomura struggles to keep up, moving his hands as quickly as he can to keep hold.

Attempting to communicate just results in static. The edges of Dabi's blade begins to burn, smoke wafting upwards.

“Tomura,” Eraserhead continues, easily stepping out of the way of Dabi's next attack. The way he says his name makes goosebumps bloom over the back of his neck, reminding him of the chastising voice from his dream. “Why are you so afraid? What have you been waiting for?”

Dabi gets a direct hit, clanging loudly against Eraserhead's iron wraps. Sparks flit off at the touch, and the violent vibrations shake all the way to the hilt, pulsing against Tomura's palms. He nearly drops Dabi, gasping at the burning sensation.

“There is an obvious rift between the two of you,” Eraserhead says, sounding a few seconds away from a yawn. “One does all the fighting and one does all the running. Why is that?”

At the last word, Dabi becomes too heavy to hold. Tomura aches to keep him up but eventually drops him, and he clatters against the floor. Tomura struggles to make sense of the vision, nearly unbelieving that he did such a low, despicable thing as dropping his weapon. “Dabi, I'm sorry,” he says in perfect practice, quickly leaping down to pick his weapon up again.

In between blinks, the long, dark scythe is gone and Dabi is there again, looking disheveled. When he reaches his hand out expectantly, Tomura flinches backward. It all seems to happen so quickly that it takes a few moments for the sinking feeling to cement in his chest. Based on Dabi's unfiltered shock, he noticed everything. Tomura sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and takes a few steps back, shaking when Dabi stands.

“Answer that question,” Eraserhead sighs, going back to the desk. He stands behind it and pulls the sleeping bag around himself. “Come back tomorrow. Expect expulsion if this isn't better. Lesson over. Go away.”

Tomura sucks the blood from his lip and follows Dabi outside.

They silently agree not to return to class. Instead, they both sit on the top step, watching Death City move in increments beneath them.

The air is cold at this height, and the wind is unhindered and exceedingly strong. Tomura can't resist the urge to tuck into his hoodie, bending his legs so he can perch his chin over his busted knees. It takes several minutes, but eventually, the sun soaks into his dark clothes and begins to warm him when the wind doesn't blow.

Beside him, Dabi looks dead, jerking upwards as if he's keeping himself awake. Tomura sequesters his hands into his pockets, tucking them away in the center of his fold. He can feel the burning sensation dance across the palms and wonders if he should cool them in the chilled air.

“He's full of shit,” Dabi drones suddenly. “What does he know about us?”

“That we're failing.” Tomura isn't wearing socks; his ankles are freezing.

“Besides that, I mean. We're partners, and partners would understand each other better than some random instructor.”

“We don't,” he replies bluntly. A bird calls nearby. The wind pushes a few trees at the base of the stairs, making them shake smoothly.

Hunching over in defeat, Dabi groans a muffled, “We were fine a month ago.”

Tomura would disagree, but he's reached his maximum number of vocal disagreements for the month. “You started getting nicer.” It feels like he's accusing Dabi of being a decent person.

“Shit,” Dabi huffs. Tomura watches him without turning his head. Dabi rubs his hand over his face, twitching when he accidentally rubs his bad eye. “Do we have to talk about this.”

“No.” Tomura breathlessly means it.

A few more distant birds cry out, and a few dart across the sky. They dip to the staircase, somewhere near the middle. Tomura watches the dots squawk at each other, pushing and fighting. Maybe someone dropped food over there.

“Fuck,” Dabi interjects his meaningless observations. “I was treating you like shit. It wasn't right.”

“What made that change?” He whispers. Dabi's face looks flushed, and he quickly looks away as if something very exciting is happening in the exact opposite direction of Tomura.

“I just realized something. That's all.”

“What was it?”

The words seem to be flowing easier now. Dabi doesn't sound as pained when he answers. “If,” he swivels back, just enough for Tomura to lock onto his good eye. “If we worked together, towards something, then we'd be a team. I'd have someone who had my back. That's why I have your back.”

His words and his expression confuse Tomura terribly. “Because we're a team,” he reiterates.

“A team,” Dabi allows, then chuckles. He rubs the nape of his neck, looking young and boyish. “I really depend on you, you know? It's not like a weapon can get very far on their own, right? I really trust you.”

It's Tomura's turn to look away. He curls his hands up a little tighter, clenching them until it's painful. His fingertips can feel the new texture of his palms, and they're burned. He can feel it, and he knows. “I trust you,” he lies. Dabi's smile grimaces for a split second, and they sit there, knowing he lied.

“Just a little bit,” Dabi's hand brushes against his thigh when he stands, smearing warmth across the denim. “Give me a little bit.”


	4. Should've Seen the Signs

Panting, Tomura gently sets Dabi down. He's covered in sweat, wishing he had clipped his bangs back when they pierce his eyes.

Dabi emerges out of weapon form, breathing hard.

Maintaining form was difficult, but unlike yesterday, not impossible. They slipped in a few places but fell back into their regular routine easily enough. Maybe they could be forgiven, considering Dabi's exertion from his injuries.

Eraserhead stands at the side, out of the way. He raises an eyebrow at Tomura's leather gloves, mercifully saying nothing but, “Good enough. Get out of here.”

The two boys dart out of the room, Tomura forgetting his curiosity for when their next assignment will be in the rush of escape.

There's a chilled wind outside, negating the heat from the sun when it blows strong enough. Tomura can feel his sweat dry and puffs in relief, grinning a bit dopily at how well the remedial lesson went. It's not as if they did stunningly, but they passed, and that exceeded his dour expectations.

“Hey,” Dabi blurts out, blocking the way to the stairs. Tomura blinks at his partner, too surprised by Dabi's strange, intense eye contact to remember not to look directly at him. “You wanna do something?” Perma-bored, languid Dabi sounds as if he's actually asking a question. The inflection is alien to Tomura's ears. And maybe to Dabi's mouth.

“We just did something?” Tomura phrases it like a question for some reason? Although, now that Dabi is asking, he's not entirely sure of anything. _Did_ they just do something? Does that not qualify as something?

“That was class,” Dabi huffs a little laugh, burning the back of Tomura's neck. “Or, I guess special lessons. I mean we should do something fun.”

“Fun?”

Dabi bursts out in laughter, wide grin curving into his eye. At this point, the injury has plateaued. It will probably begin looking better in the next few days, but for now, it festers, stewing in itself. When he's smiling like that, it looks painful.

Maybe he's a masochist, Tomura festers, stewing in himself. That would explain quite a bit.

“Damn, never had fun,” Dabi whistles, mouth still curling easily. A few months ago, he would've tacked a _freak_ on the end of that, but now the space is empty, waving and calling Tomura's anxious attention to it. What does it mean? And how should it make him feel?

“I'll show you,” Dabi answers sympathetically, and Tomura jumps when a hand descends on his shoulder. There isn't force there but it still prods him to walk from its five-pronged touch.

It leads him through the streets, through their normal route and past it. School is still in session, so all of the student haunts are completely empty. “Too bad we don't have a ball,” Dabi laments when they pass the neighborhood's basketball court. Tomura tries to picture Dabi doing something laborious out of weapon form and gives up. He has to steer his mind away from picturing it several times before he regains focus.

In terms of destination, he isn't expecting anything in particular, but still manages to be surprised when Dabi leads him back to the supermarket. The hanging sign swings creakily, and the sound eases him out of his stupor.

“The grocery store?”

A placid meow greets them, and they both turn in time to see the fat cat break ranks. It flounces across the street with the air of a king.

“Oh, your friend is here. Guess I'll get cat food, too,” Dabi moves through the automatic doors which announce his entrance. “Stay here, I'll be right back.”

Sitting on the low curb, Tomura initially tries to keep the cat off his lap. He's forced to surrender a few persistent minutes later. “This is fun?” he asks, rubbing under the feline's jaw. It seems pleased, eyes crossing and its purring vibrating through Tomura's bones.

A few of the other cats, normally skittish strays, seem curious enough to cross over. Tomura takes care not to move too much as they surround him. A little white kitten rubs into his elbow, blinking up at him with mismatched eyes. A fat calico hisses behind his back, prompting a brief scuffle that he can't see.

One stands in the middle of the street, catching his eye. The dark color of its fur makes it seem like a black hole, strangely dark and shadowed. The more Tomura watches it, the more the situation seems wrong. It stands and moves slowly, trailing its tail behind it.

No, not a tail. It's dragging something behind it, something heavy and large. It shifts once more, and now two eyes are looking at him. They're mismatched too, but one is red and bloody. It points at Tomura like a pitchfork to claim him, like an accusing finger.

“More friends?” Tomura glances back and there's Dabi, holding a couple plastic bags in one hand. He's holding back a smile, and also his phone in his free hand. It's angled at Tomura, loaded.

Standing up takes a minute to shoo the more stubborn felines away. Most flee the moment he begins to shift, darting back to safe haven only a few feet away. They dash by the shadow of the dying hell cat Tomura had seen, obscuring it until they pass. When he's on his feet and Dabi has turned his back, he gives it a long look.

It looks like roadkill. Maybe it was once a cat, but whatever it was is long dead and decomposed. Even from here, Tomura can hear the flies screaming above it, although he can't see any. Was that there before?

Dabi interrupts him. “Let's go.” He's almost out of sight, moving slowly. Tomura brushes some cat hair off his pants and dutifully follows.

Tomura maintains an easy silence until sometime later, when Dabi is slicing up vegetables for whatever meal he has planned.

“You what?” Is the response, Dabi setting his knife down to brush chopped scallion segments off his jeans. Music sets a gentle mood behind him, soft piano chords in a slightly discordant melody aching out of the small speaker on the counter.

Tomura taps a fast rhythm with his fingernails. “Nothing.” When he feels Dabi look at him, he darts away, staring steadfastly at the sizzling pan on the stove.

“No, I mean,” he watches his partner pluck a resilient piece of scallion from the webbing between his thumb and index finger, “you said something. I just didn't catch it.”

Tomura did, in fact, say something, just a small statement about how he didn't like scallions all that much, but he doesn't want to repeat it where Dabi can hear and make a big deal out of it. It's really such a small thing, he doesn't want Dabi to think that it's incredibly important or that he _wants_ to make a big deal out of little scallions. But he knows the look on Dabi's face, and he knows his partner isn't close to letting it go.

“Just tell me,” he coaxes, slipping the caught slice of green into his mouth. From the angle Tomura's spying from, his eyes are almost fully closed, making him look relaxed.

With that, it wheezes from Tomura like a final breath. “I just don't like those that much,” he deflates, tucking his offending face away.

Dabi hums, “Oh, I didn't know. That's cool, I can set these aside and we can stir them in separately.”

“Oh,” Tomura echoes. The solution was really simple, huh. “Right.” No big deal. That's cool. Right. Tomura rubs his forehead against the wood of the counter and wishes he could be reborn as it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Hands burn his shoulders, the heat lingering. “Here,” he nearly flinches back when he looks up to see a wooden spoon taking up his vision, held like a sacrifice. “Come stir this.” Dabi's on the other side of the kitchen now, giving him space. He taps the pot that every chopped up thing (except the scallions) is going in.

Moving cautiously, Tomura takes the handle, sliding out of his seat and wandering to the other side of the counter. It feels strange to be sharing the kitchen while Dabi is at work in it, like Tomura is out of line, clogging up the cogs of this personal machine.

“Just stir,” Dabi advises, his back to Tomura's questioning expression. Okay, stirring. Simple stuff. There's no way to mess this up, unless Dabi is tricking him.

He dips the spoon in and starts pushing the vegetables around, enamored by the sizzling noise they make as they burn. Whenever Dabi does this, he looks like a professional. He could probably be a chef if being a weapon doesn't pan out. Unbidden, the image of his swollen eye fills Tomura's mind and his playful thoughts are splashed by the reminder.

Right, Tomura would probably be the reason that would force Dabi to quit.

He stares into the pot of vegetables, poking them listlessly with his spoon until a thought suddenly strikes him: maybe it'll all work out. Maybe Dabi would never have to retire as a weapon, and they would sync and stay partners through graduation. Maybe even after. Tomura's never thought of this before, never been so hopeful.

“Hey, you should take off your gloves,” Dabi notes, walking over with a large bowl of some kind of batter. His front is dusted with flour, and when he slams the bowl down on the counter, bubbles pop out of the thick substance. “When did you get those anyway?”

Tomura slides his hands into his pockets, still clutching the spoon. “I forgot I was wearing them.” Dabi doesn't seem to notice, too busy pouring the batter into a pan.

“Well you'll get hot with those on,” he comments after he puts everything in the small oven they have in the corner. The over timer doesn't work, so he pulls out their little egg timer that's shaped like a skull and cranks it a few times. “And you can pull that off the heat. It should be ready.”

Dinner turns out to be vegetable stir fry. It's interesting to Tomura, infinitely more interesting than when he has no idea what goes into the meals that Dabi makes. He recognizes everything he touched, even spots a few pieces that he remembers burned more quickly than others, some decorated with crisper skins.

“You seem to be eating more than usual,” his partner remarks, and for some reason Tomura looks away, feeling guilty. Suddenly the meal doesn't seem as... something. It's hard to explain.

“You must have been hungry.” It doesn't sound like an accusation. Gathering strength, he peeks up through the fringes of his hair. Dabi is steadily chewing on his food, not even looking at him. Instead, he seems focused on something in the kitchen. A few seconds later, his timer goes off and he stands up, leaving his plate behind to take care of whatever's in the oven.

Listening to the clattering sounds of Dabi moving things around in the other room, Tomura carefully turns his hands around to look at his palms. There are blistered paths across them, and he's familiar enough with the sensation to know that it's not so bad. The only inconvenience is where they are, noticeable and irritated on his necessary palms.

He turns his hands around again and notices something under the nail of his middle finger, on his right hand. Dabi is quiet, but still in the other room, so Tomura brings his hand closer to inspect it, throwing stealth aside. It looks like dried blood. Digging it out makes it crumble, affirming the hypothesis. He probably scratched himself too hard without realizing it. But where?

A sensation like warm egg yolk runs down his front, splashing and gathering in his lap. He launches backwards, tipping the chair over. It's red all down his shirt, as if poured down his front.

With shuddering hands, he touches it, feeling the thickness of blood. He follows the trail upwards, all the way to his throat, gagging when he finds a deep slash across his throat. His hands ghost over the edge of the cut then push inside, making him choke and heave. No matter how he pulls, he can't pull his fingers out of the gash.

It feels like he's being ripped apart. Opening his mouth to scream only pushes fingers out over his tongue, squeezing them through his throat like vomit.

Laughing, he realizes. He's laughing.

“Hey,” cuts through the nightmare with the effectiveness of a blade.

Tomura blinks and he's on the floor, curled up tightly against the back of his chair. “Did you fall?” When Dabi doesn't get an answer, he asks with slight inflection, “Tomura?”

Pulling his hands off his neck is difficult. They feel embedded, and moving them is like commanding stone. Trying to repress his shaking, Tomura seals his palms against the floor before pushing himself up. “I'm sorry,” he sniffs, head down. The floor is clean. “It was an accident.”

Dabi rights the chair for him, grabbing him before he can flee to a safe place. He gently pulls him back, and with no escape, Tomura crumples back in place. It feels different.

Dishes ring out against each other as Dabi works out of his eyeline, soothing Tomura slightly with the domesticity of the sound. With a “here,” a plate is pulled over the section of table he was zeroing in on. 

After a tense second, Tomura gingerly picks up the fork and inspects the dish. “Is this cake?” his voice sounds a little blubbery, and he struggles to discreetly clear his throat.

“Yeah.” Dabi doesn't sound any different from five minutes ago, as if finding Tomura on the floor in the fetal position wasn't a big deal. “I thought we could celebrate passing our remedial lessons.” He doesn't move, doesn't look up from his own plate, allowing Tomura to study him without judgment.

His gaze sweeps over Dabi's tired eyes, his strong jaw, his tan, fair skin, skitters over his long eyelashes and his

his mouth which looks

looks very soft.


End file.
